


kiss with a fist

by 221BFakerStreet



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, Billy Hargrove is Bad at Feelings, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Harrington, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Everybody is Bad at Feelings, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Fucked Up Feelings, Gay Sex, Harringrove, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Top Billy Hargrove, emotional fuckery, fucking as fighting, steve harrington is bad at feelings, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BFakerStreet/pseuds/221BFakerStreet
Summary: And really Steve should be fuckingterrifiedof Billy Hargrove, and heis, sure, but there's also some kind of weird sickthrillat the thought of Billy touching him again and that's a feeling he just doesn't know what to do with. So what hedoeswith it, is he stuffs it way deep down in the Feelings Box™ right next to his chronic loneliness and disappointment in his own lacking intellect, locks it in, and tries to forget about it.





	1. “Your stupid fucking face.”

And really Steve should be fucking _terrified_ of Billy Hargrove, and he _is_ , sure, but there's also some kind of weird sick _thrill_ at the thought of Billy touching him again and that's a feeling he just doesn't know what to do with. So what he _does_ with it, is he stuffs it way deep down in the Feelings Box™ right next to his chronic loneliness and disappointment in his own lacking intellect, locks it in, and tries to forget about it.

Except that fucker must have a _key_ or some shit, because up it bubbles every time he catches a glimpse of golden curls and that stupid denim jacket. His need is an escape artist, a thief, and it steals away his thoughts and his sense of self. If Billy has noticed, he’s not letting on, and Steve isn't sure what to do with that, exactly, either. Because, _fuck_ , this is not normal, and he knows that much, at least.

He thinks maybe everything that's happened has fucked him up, wonders if Nancy was right when she said he was bullshit. It is all at least a _little_ bit bullshitt-y, when you really think about it.

Because Billy Hargrove is scary. He can still remember the numb chill and the cold sweat, and the ache in his face afterward. How he thought he might die that night and it was all just kind of _okay_ , in a cosmic sense. In the way that everything else _wasn't_ okay.

And he has dreams- he doesn't sleep well these days- has dreams where Billy looms over him, shirt half unbuttoned, stalking like he's _prey_ and he wakes up hard and panting, sweat pouring down his temples. And he rarely if ever lets himself get off to it, because it feels _wrong_. Every time he’s brought himself off that way, it only gets him more keyed up, more twitchy. He feels like a junkie who just can't get a fucking hit.

Meanwhile, Billy Hargrove is _everywhere_. He sees him in the halls at school, with his wolfish grin; sees him standing around his car in the arcade parking lot, flicking cigarettes to the ground and crushing the butts beneath his boot. And he doesn't think Billy even _notices_ him anymore until one day in the parking lot of the diner he asks him what the fuck he's looking at, and Steve must _really actually_ want to die, because he answers clear as day: “Your stupid fucking face.”

Billy looks for a moment like he's been gut punched, and Steve revels in it for all of two seconds before he realizes what he's done. And then Billy _laughs_.

The animal _thing_ inside of Steve fucking _preens_.

Billy loops his arm around Steve's shoulders, around his neck, squeezing just enough to let him know where they both stand. Steve wants to fall into the Earth, wants to crawl, wants things he _shouldn't_.

“Not bad, Harrington,” Billy says, like a gift. “Not bad at all.”


	2. “Hey there, Princess.”

Billy gets in Steve's personal space a lot, which is, ok, _weird_ but only because he had stopped for a while. He had stopped looking, stopped leering, stopped _posturing_ like he was readying for battle. But _now_ all bets are off. _Now_ it's like Billy is a magnet and Steve is true north; everywhere he goes, Billy swings into his orbit. He can't shake him, isn't sure if he _wants_ to.

Ever since their little tête-à-tête in the parking lot, Billy has spent his time not _quite_ touching Steve. Circling. He's circling like a fucking _vulture_ , and it's driving Steve a little bit mental. More than a little, he thinks, running his hand through his hair for the third time in as many minutes.

He is standing outside the gym after basketball practice because what the fuck _else_ is he gonna do, right? He's standing, sweat cooling on his skin because he's fucking afraid to use the showers with Billy standing around, shooting the shit with dickface Tommy like nothing is _wrong_ , and Billy fucking bangs his way out of the door because of _course_ he does.

Steve doesn't have time to really think before Billy is up in his face, shorter than him by an inch or two but somehow always _looming_. And he leans in, rests his right forearm on the brick wall next to Steve's head, and all Steve can think of is that _stupid_ fucking soap commercial. _Calgon, take me away._ He is a cornered rat, a wounded animal. Coyotes gnaw off their own legs sometimes, he's heard, to get out of traps.

“Hey there, Princess.” Billy’s hot breath ghosts across his face and he flinches, and Billy _grins_. “Didn’t see you in the showers. Feelin' shy, cupcake?”

He does that fucking _thing_ that he does with his tongue, and Steve feels his knees go weak. Because something is wrong with him, right? Something crawled inside of him and made a home, and it won't fucking _leave_ and it makes his gut clench and his dick twitch, makes his mouth move of it's own accord: “Fuck you, Billy.”

And then he is being _pressed_ into the wall, and his skin is _singing_ with the contact even through flimsy layers of worn out gym clothes. Those electric blue eyes skewer him there, raw and open. Billy's fingers grip his hair roughly, pull his head to the left in a strangely gentle manner. Steve _knows_ what those fingers can do, still feels the imprints like burn marks on his skin, thinks they might as well be tattooed on his body. _Property of Billy Hargrove_. Of all the thoughts he keeps inside, he keeps _that_ one the closest, behind the cage of his ribs with the stuttering shock of beating wings.

“You've got a very _fuckable_ mouth, Stevie,” Billy says into his jawline, lips dragging up toward his ear. “I’d watch what comes out of it.” His tongue peeks out, catches Steve by surprise, and he can't help the soft moan that slips out.

“Oh, now, _Princess_ ,” he chides, moving back to look Steve in the eye, “that sounds like an _invitation_.”

And Steve doesn’t deny it. He is locked up, disjointed. He is a fucking _train wreck_ happening in slow motion. Billy pushes him down to his knees, and the thing inside pulls him so far down he’s certain he’ll _never_ get back up.

The zip of Billy’s fly coming down is like a death knell, and Steve leans in. He wonders a lot these days, about what death really _means_ , if it means anything at all. If everything just _happens_ , then it's _fine_ , and he's _fine_. And it's _happening_ , right now.

Billy's hard cock nudges at his chapped lips, thick and red and _menacing_. And Steve opens his mouth, without even thinking about it.

“ _That's_ it, sweetheart. _Get_ that dick.” Billy croons and coos filthy words at him, calling him by names that send jolts of panicked pleasure to his own cock, trapped in his shorts, untouchable because _Billy hasn’t said_ -

He's never done this before, but he learns real quick. He panics again when Billy thrusts a little too deep, but a tug on his hair sets things right and he tries again. His world narrows down to this one point in time, to the slick wet noises and the ache in his knees, the way Billy pets his hair and calls him _pretty_.

When Billy comes, he doesn't give a warning, but Steve takes it in his stride. He gulps the warm wet mess down as much as he can until Billy pulls out, replaces his dick with his thumb. Presses down and looks at his own spend cooling on Steve's tongue. Billy _moans_ then, and he feels something click into place inside, something that makes it okay to _breathe_ when he's been drowning for fucking _weeks_.

“Get up,” Billy says, and Steve nods, head full of clouds. Billy mostly drags him up, but it's _fine_ because he can take it- he can take a _lot_ , he's learned.

He starts to reach into Steve's shorts only to be met with the sticky evidence of his shame. There are _tears_ in his eyes, for fucks sake, and he can't even _look_ at Billy now, maybe never _again_ after all is said and done.

Billy grabs his chin and _forces_ his head up.

“Look at me, pretty boy.” Billy’s sticky fingers swipe across his own lips and Steve _knows_ and his skin is on fire all over again.

There is belonging, and then there is _belonging_. Billy tucks his now soft dick away, and Steve leans back heavy against the rough brick  wall. He's cold again, and his hair is probably _fucked_ , and he can _taste_ Billy every time he swallows.

The promise of 'next time’ lingers in the possessive squeeze of Billy’s hand at the nape of his neck, in the way Billy saunters off as if he owns every- _fucking_ -thing.

And Steve? Steve is _fucked_. He is _wrong_ ; fundamentally broken. He is too much of nothing, a wild, empty space that needs filling.

He can see Billy rounding the corner of the building, sliding a cigarette from his pack as he goes. And he wonders, maybe for the first time, who's really following who.


	3. “You ready for more, pretty boy?”

Steve is afraid of a lot of things.

He's afraid of the dark, though he never used to be; what's _in_ the dark, really. He's afraid of not being good enough, but he's _always_ been afraid of that. He's afraid of _Billy_ , of that gut clenching feeling that isn't quite terror but isn't quite lust; it's a third thing, something primal. _Animal_.

But mostly, right now, Steve is _tired_. He's tired of sleepless nights and wearing his own skin like an ill-fitting suit, and he's tired of being so fucking _scared_ all the damn time. So he _decides_ , because he's never been one to shy away from a fight, especially one he knows he might _lose_.

* * *

Billy doesn't just _walk_ , he _stalks_. Like a tiger, easy as you please, muscles moving under skin. Showing off just by _moving_. Steve used to have something like that- not really _that_ , obviously, because Billy Hargrove is built like a fucking _tank_ , but- well, he used to have _something_. Likes to think he still _does_. And it's something different, he knows, but not useless. He still has his baseball bat, the one with the nails in it. Keeps it next to his bed at night when he sleeps, _just in case_.

He's tired of being scared of fucking _everything_ , so he thinks about the bat when he slips the note into Billy’s back pocket and speeds down the hall after like the devil's on his heels- cause, fuck, he _might_ be. Thinks about the blood and bone and the strange fluidity of movement that had bloomed inside the terror. He counts it as a win that he doesn't look behind him as he walks through the door of his biology classroom.

* * *

Billy’s Camaro is sitting in his driveway when he gets home, and he knows the fucker _had_ to have skipped last period to get here before him. Tries not to let it rattle him, but if he's being honest he's been rattled since day _one_.

And he’d asked the woman at the register, at the store in Indianapolis, and she’d been so fucking _nice_ he was almost _mad_ about it but, fuck, he's not _Billy_ , right? So she was nice, and she explained what to do and even helped him pick out the right kind of _lube_ for fucks sake. So if he shifts uncomfortably as he’s unlocking the front door he tries not to show it- predators can _smell_ weakness. He shouldn't be nervous. He's on his home turf, after all. Billy's voice taunts him even in his own head: _No turning back now, Harrington_. And that shit-eating grin.

No more _bullshit_.

“You ready for more, pretty boy?” Billy's hands grip his hips, and Steve springs like a bear trap. Shoves Billy against the closed front door and attacks his mouth in a searing kiss. _Gnaw your_ own _leg off, you sonuvabitch_.

Billy _moans_ , open mouthed and panting against lips. Steve reaches down, fumbles with the button on his blue-eyed beau's jeans until it _finally_ gives under his trembling fingers. He backs away only to pull gently at the waistband of Billy's underwear, leading him past the foyer and into the spacious living room. Billy stalks after him, as though he's _allowing_ Steve to do it. And Steve, half hard in his pants, thinks about all the times people have _allowed_ him things and he wants to _scream_. It must show on his face- which he could _feel_ , maybe, if it wasn't fucking _numb_ \- because Billy raises an eyebrow, considering, calculating.

Without a word, Steve stops and pushes Billy's jacket off his shoulders, standing _so close_ but refusing to _touch_. And Billy-fucking-Hargrove _tenses_ and he can see how he's clenching his fists, white-knuckled and that thing inside him is throwing a goddamn _party_ right now. Jumbling up his insides till his heart’s in his throat and his ribs are _aching_ with want.

He strips Billy of his shirt next, and then slowly pulls down his pants and underwear, smiling to himself as that angry cock springs free, already hard and leaking. He breathes against it, tastes the scent of salt and sweat on his tongue, and then leans _away_ and he can hear Billy _groan_. He stands up to take off his own clothes, leaving Billy to stand strangely still, naked in the middle of his living room.

“Lay down,” he says, and he doesn't care _where_ really, but Billy is suddenly at his back, crowding him, _overwhelming_ him.

“I'm not the _bitch_ here, Stevie.” His voice is a low, angry hum in his ear, seething with unspoken truths.

And Steve _remembers_. The crazed look in his eyes, that fevered gleam of pain and rage like smoldering coals in the dark. He wants to fall to his knees, to _submit_. Wants to punch the air out of Billy's lungs until neither one of them can breathe. He turns slowly, presses himself against Billy, skin to skin, and nearly _dies_. Billy is a furnace, an _inferno_ , and Steve feels like _fuel_.

Gently, hands on Billy’s shoulders, he guides them both down to the floor.

“What are you _doi_ \- oh.” Billy's anger seems to _deflate_ when Steve straddles his hips, and their cocks slip together, a blissful accident. Steve moves higher, reaches below him to take Billy's dick in his hand, strokes once, twice.

Steve isn't the smartest student, _sure_ , but he always comes _prepared_.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Princess,” Billy grunts as he slides down inch by agonizing inch until he's _enthroned_ on Billy's thick cock. They sit there, sweat glistening on skin, catching their breath, and it’s better than any punch Steve could _ever_ throw.

“ _Please_ ,” Billy _whimpers_ and he has to bite his lip until he's sure it's _bleeding_. Another moment, and then he _moves_ , rolling his hips, hands planted on Billy's chest.

“Fuck!” The slick drag and squelch of their bodies pushing and pulling fills the room, tearing moans and curses from Steve's mouth like a broken cassette tape and he just can't fucking _stop_. It's _in_ him now; Billy's _in_ him- not just _fucking_ him, but _under his skin_. And Billy knows- oh God, he _knows_!- he _must_ because he sits up, fingers bruising Steve's hips as he thrusts up inside. One hand slides up the sweat-slick skin of his back, fists his hair and _yanks_ his head back exposing his throat. Billy goes in for the kill, and Steve didn't _realize_ , but he _should've_.

“Look at _my Princess_ , riding that dick.” Billy bites at his neck, sucks bruises and _brands_ him, and Steve is so _full_ and yet so _bereft_. “C'mon, sweetheart. _Fuck_ me.”

Steve _swears_ he feels his soul leave his body when he comes, stomach muscles _spasming_ and thighs _burning_ and everything about it feels so terribly _good_. And Billy- well, Billy keeps going, grinding up so deep inside him until Steve feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, heaving dry sobs into the crook of his lover’s neck.

“Please,” he breathes, and Billy comes with shocked, stuttering gasp. He can _feel_ it, warm and wet, and it oozes from his hole around the obstruction of Billy's softening cock. The strange creature he is now wants to keep it _in_ , but instead he grips hard at Billy's shoulders, nails biting into skin.

“You did so _good_ , sweetheart,” Billy says, and Steve _shivers_ and wants to tell him to go _fuck_ himself, or maybe _thank you_ , but he’s never once known who he _is_ , so what the fuck should he even _say_ to that?

“I did?” He asks, a little wild-eyed, and Billy looks _scared_ when he nods back at him.

“Yeah, Steve.” He wipes the sweaty bangs from Steve's forehead.

And _he_ knows. And now _Billy_ knows, too.

_No turning back._

No more _bullshit._


End file.
